


break me, with three words

by kangelique



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angel Emma, Captain Hook | Killian Jones and Emma Swan Have a Child, Car Accidents, Cop Emma Swan, Crimes & Criminals, Definitely inspired by the show 'Quantico', Dementia, Emma's pov, F/M, Gen, Government, Grief/Mourning, Heartful goodbyes, Heavy Angst, Hello's, Hospitals and graves, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Loss, Lots of I love you's, Love Confessions, Love Letters, Melancholy, Mildly Fluffy, Minor Character Death, Mornings, Musician Captain Hook | Killian Jones, Protective Liam Jones, Werewolf Red Riding Hood | Ruby, angel Killian, in sickness and in health, killian's pov, teacups
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-16
Updated: 2020-09-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25208443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kangelique/pseuds/kangelique
Summary: What other ways is there for Emma to say she loves him, or that Killian loves her?As a hello, as a scream, over your shoulder, with no space left between, over a cup of tea, as a thank you, as an apology, with a hoarse voice under the blankets, with a shuddering gasp, when broken glass litters the floor and many more...Or basically a collection of twenty one fluffy and angsty prompts revolving around the three words because I'm really into angst right now.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 14
Kudos: 27





	1. -Over your Shoulder-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was scrolling through pinterest for no reason whatsoever and then came upon this and boom! Suddenly writing angsty and fluffy prompts made my To-do list. Although no promises to be super consistent because of my other pending one shots/ stories, I will try to post at least one new chapter every two weeks. But for now, enjoy!

**Chapter 1: Over your shoulder**

He _despised_ this part. Utterly despised it. Admittedly it was the hardest part. Managing to not trip on stage, plucking the strings on his guitar, announcing their band name to the thousand strange faces in a dark room, singing his agony into a microphone, and answering the fans questions properly was nothing compared to this moment. 

Once, as her mother and father were prepared to board a similar plane to a distinct destination, she had stepped forward, with open arms, and said she was not very good at goodbyes. And now as he adjusted his grip on the handle of the suitcase and folded his jacket over his arm once more, it is obvious she was speaking the truth. 

Her eyes widened, as did his, and the features of her beautiful face that she so skillfully held together now crumbled as she stepped forward and threw her arms round his neck. He dropped both things, handle slipping from his fingers as they wind through her hair, and jacket a crumpled heap on the floor as his arm enveloped her waist and pressed her to him as though they could mold into one. Her sniffs, gentle and abashed soft sounds, were muffled in the crook of his neck, and if it were his to decide, they would be back in bed, hidden amongst pillows and under rumpled sheets, with his cock gone soft inside her and his face between her breasts. 

Alas, she released him. For it is not his choice, so she cupped his cheeks and kissed him with purpose. 

“Hey,” she whispered. His eyes are yet to open. The moment he does this safe haven will break and his gaze will soak in the fact that it is only she and him whose goodbye is stealing the most minutes.

Will and Belle shared one chaste kiss, and a coffee cup pushed into Will’s hand. Robin and Regina’s kiss is prolonging, indecent for such a public area, but quick. Victor and Ruby are all secret smiles and assuring nods whilst Jefferson and the little lass Grace are familial kisses on the forehead and promises to be good for the sitter. 

“Listen to me, babe.” She tugged on the front of his shirt and he opened his eyes. 

“Aye, love?”

A smile bloomed on her face. “You got this.” The protest rose on his tongue, but she shook her head and planted a soft kiss on his cracking jaw. “And don’t forget you _deserve_ this. Okay?”

Oh did he truly? Why is it that only with his mum lying ten feet below ground and his brother’s hopes lost at sea was he able to find success?

Emma stared at him, and he swallowed his lie alongside his nod. 

“Of course, darling.”

She gave him a look. “You’re forgetting my superpower.”

“I’m not, love.”

“I know.” 

_“Attention everyone. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready. Regular boarding will begin in approximately ten minutes. Thank you.”_

“It’s time, I suppose,” he said, throat rather thick with barely suppressed tears. 

Her eyes dimmed slightly. “Yep. Worldwide too. So what do you say, Jones, ready to be a rock star?”

“Honestly, Swan?”

The corner of her mouth twitched upward with sympathy and she ran a palm down his chest. “No, you can lie to me.”

_“Five minutes for boarding. Please have your boarding pass and identification ready, thank you.”_

She squeezed his hand and inhaled a deep breath. “You gotta go.”

His grip tightened on the handle of his rolling suitcase again and his jacket was once again folded over his trembling arm. “It would seem so, sweetheart,” he murmured. 

Their fingers distangled and he joined Will at the back. 

**"** I love you, Emma Swan,” he said over his shoulder. 

She smiled from the corner of his eyes. “I love you too, Killian Jones.” 

And he sighed. 

Whole, if simply for a moment. 

**  
  
**

*********

“As I’m sure many of you have heard, a beautiful woman - my mum, to be exact - has passed on from this earth, couple months ago. And throughout such a painstaking and completely unexpected journey there has been one other woman, one stunning and quite fierce, by the name of Emma Swan who was with me for it so. This one’s for you, darling,” Killian said, looking straight into the camera and into her pounding heart. 

Emma smiled, hand abandoning the poptart on the coffee table as she leaned back against the couch and grasped his ring around her neck, his promise. She toyed with it, slipping it in and out of her ring finger as she listened.

She should’ve guessed Killian Jones, biggest sentimental liar in all of Boston, would write a song about her. His voice still bleeds, but at least there’s the hint of a smirk on his face. The first in a while. 

She’s here. Crossed-legged on the floor. Surrounded by three empty mugs and an open laptop and closer to finding Robert Gold’s hideout. Forced to watch her boyfriend -wow, her _boyfriend._ Not a word Past Emma would have ever said-go through the Five Stages of Grief from her phone screen. Unable to kiss his smirk. 

She sighed. His “ _I love you, Emma Swan_ ” echoed in her ears for the hundredth time today. To be fair she’d always sucked at goodbyes, had since she was kid and didn’t get the chance to say hello to a new foster family before they were kicking her out. And then with Neal too, leaving her without a trace and nothing but an old yellow bug to spark useless questions. 

But somehow with Killian, it was worse. Like having half of her heart walking around on stage in circles. 

Her thumb smoothed over the ring’s center, the red jewel briefly winking at her. Reminding her that this apartment was temporary and his side of the bed being cold was temporary too. 

The blue house on Charles Street would be permanent. 

*********

“Hello, love.”

“Killian, what-” She tried springing forth and succeeded in prompting fresh moisture that had no qualms in overwhelming his vision with disbelief. He grimaced with her, palm covering her shaking knuckles as her fingers probed over the bandaged area. He dared not look, rather pushing his gaze to trace every line of her face and the wide emerald eyes flitting to him in question. “It was Gold, wasn’t it?”

“Aye, Swan,” he spoke through gritted teeth, eyes falling to the floor as the image of two policemen struggling to pull Gold’s hands behind his back whilst he claimed this wasn’t right, that he was a simple shop owner, and then -Killian’s wobbly breath pierced the silence. 

And then he’d drawn a gun from his pocket, indignant expression twisting into a sneer as he aimed for the first person he could, bullet cracking Emma’s knees as Graham hit the pavement and blood - _her blood,_ gods, it was his love’s blood!- rapidly swallowed the hand pressing on her straining chest. 

He swallowed thickly, uselessly, and met her eyes. “I’m afraid so.”

She frowned. “But what are you doing here, what about the tour, and the guys, didn’t they-”

“None of that matters in comparison to your health, Emma, surely you must be aware of that,” he replied, almost bruskely, eyebrows furrowing with the meager care she showed for herself. 

“Yeah I know but-” 

“Swan. I beg of you, sweetheart, do not say you are fine.” His fingers folding into hers tightened to a painful degree, and he clenched his eyes shut. 

“I am.” She tugged on their joined hands. “Hey, look at me.”

He did. Oh he did and both their faces collapsed at the same time. 

“I’m sorry-”

“You are fine, truly?”

The hint of a smirk mocked the corner of her lip. “Well I only just woke up, what did the doctor say?”

He sighed, and her smirk held no mercy as he responded, “That you are fine. Or, rather, will be fine. Provided with the three to six months of healing you shall undertake.”

“I told you.”

“Why?” he croaked, despite how the answer was as blinding as the sun when he’d rushed through St. Elizabeth’s doors, satchel and duffel bag hastily pushed into Robin’s waiting hands, head jerking on all sides when no one gave him answers fast enough, and thrusting his thumb into buttons as his heart threatened to explode. 

Confusion, annoyance, and then realization settled on her face. “You should have just asked Belle or my parents -wait, are they here too?”

“Of course, love. Currently getting substance from the vending machines in the hall.”

Her slim finger trailed the curve of his jaw, delicate skin on his restoring sense to the numbed bones. “Something you should be doing too,” Emma whispered. 

“I preferred to do so once you awakened,” he said. 

“Yep, well now I am so you have no excuse.” 

He arched an eyebrow and closed his eyes as he reverently brushed his lips across her knuckles. “I believe wishing to stay by your side after such an injury is a fairly good excuse, wouldn’t you agree?”

Her eyes softened. “I know how much you hate hospitals though.”

How could he not? 

The grim colored walls. The bright marble floors. The nurses strolling along the hallways with clipboards that held no signs of progress. The uncomfortable white bed that failed to compare to the one at home. The monitor keeping his hopes up and stealing it away when it abruptly fluctuated and left him with nothing but a straight line and pointless apologies from doctors. 

Hospitals carried his mum’s ghost. 

Killian plastered on a fake smile, weak by all standards. “It needn’t matter, darling.”

Tears welled up in her eyes and she blinked desperately. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m offended you would think otherwise.”

She smiled a small smile. “Old habits die hard, I guess. But seriously, go eat.”

He nearly choked on a sob at the familiar words. Delivered by both his mother and Liam at separate points in time. “As you wish.” 

“I really do.” She grinned. “So come on, go before I force you out myself.”

He hesitated a breath and then stood from the stool. She shoved his arse gently forward and giggled when he spun around to capture her lips because She. Was. A. Survivor. 

At the threshold he paused and whispered over his shoulder, “I love you, Emma Swan.”

Her pillow missed his head, scraping his cheek and smacking into the wall. 

And her heart never flunctated. 

Not once. 

*********

She bit her lip and his lips parted. 

The plus sign on the stick stared back at them expectantly for a reaction, any reaction. 

She waited, shifting on her bare feet, and he still hadn’t said a word since she’d shoved the stick into his hand and told him to look, _just look._

That had been ten minutes ago. 

He was still looking. 

“Surprise,” Emma said weakly, and flinched as he inhaled a sharp breath. 

“Swan,” he whispered, shaking his head. 

She groaned, closing her eyes, and catching her face in her palms. “Okay I know we haven’t talked about it, I know. I mean, we can barely talk about the blue house and the whole getting married thing -actually I’m starting to think elopement doesn’t sound like such a bad idea, right? And now I’m dropping this other thing, _kids,_ it’s a kid, Killian, oh my god I-”

“Emma.” Her mouth clamped shut and he turned around. Her heaving breaths didn’t calm until his arms snaked around her waist and the palm on her lower back pressed her flush against his chest, forehead resting on hers and tears clinging to his eyelashes mirroring hers. 

Oh. Maybe he wanted this too.

“What does that mean?” she asked softly. To be sure. To cross her arms before he walked away from their white picket fence promise. Was that still on the plate, was anything still according to plan?

His silence stretched on for hours and she finally pushed away from his chest, snatching the stick from his slightly trembling hand and stomping towards the bed as she threw her arms around herself and gripped her sides tightly. Fine. She blinked quickly and tried muffling her erratic sniffs into her shoulder while tears streamed down her cheeks. It would be fine if he didn’t want this, if she’d screwed it up, if this was too much. 

“Emma,” he said again, firmer this time. 

“What?” she snapped. “Don’t worry about it, I get it.”

“Do you, darling?”

She grit her teeth. “Do I what?”

“Get it, of course.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Killian?” she yelled. 

His voice caressed her ear, lips breathing softly through her hair, and her hunched shoulders instantly sagged as his arms slowly wrapped around her waist and his cheek dipped against the side of her head. “Understand that you’ve made me the happiest man alive, love,” he mumbled. 

Her mouth opened and closed several times. “Really?”

“Love had brought me nothing but wasted years and endless torment,” he sighed and nudged her ear with his nose. “That is, until I met you.”

She frowned. “But what about the band, it’s not fair that-”

“We shall figure it out.” 

A grin threatened to break over her face. “So...you’re happy?”

“Blissfully so.”

A watery laugh broke free from both their chests. “I love you, Killian Jones,” she murmured. 

“And I you, Emma Swan,” he said over her shoulder. 

Something had shifted on his face when she turned around and tugged him down by the nape of his neck, crashing their lips together. 

A new piece of the puzzle settled in his smile as he gazed at her lovingly. 

His shadows lifted and continued lifting as they said their vows on the rooftop where they’d met, and allowed her mom and dad to give them tips on the nursery, and even with a protruding belly she was still clapping and cheering as loudly as the rest of the fans in Atlanta.

At the airport, he said “I love you, Emma Swan, and I love _you_ , little love.”

Still over his shoulder. 

*********

Emma squeezed his hand and he gathered whatever scraps of courage available as she gave him a small, assuring smile and stepped back as he stepped forth, their fingers folding together behind him, dangling the thin line between reality and truth. 

His eyes needn’t avoid the inscription. They were trapped in his memory. Learned quicker than he’d learned how to ride a bicycle. She didn’t let go of his hand and his heart remained beating evenly for it as he knelt and the gentle breeze helped lean the rose against the gravestone, but it was her hand, always her hand, that anchored him as his demons rose to the surface and whispered death was his friend and death did not want to share him. 

“You okay, babe?” Emma asked softly.

With his other hand he brushed her name reverently, as though asking for permission to rejoin the living, but the clear sky and sun shining brightly seemed answer enough. Summer had belonged to her. The months where her skin had glowed and her smiles could have cured any ill before the fall ripped her away. And now summer had arrived again and her approval surrounded them. 

Killian smiled, and nodded. “I’m alright, love.”

He was alive. 

Perhaps deserving. 

He stood and Emma’s head fell on his shoulder. He tucked a loose strand behind her ear and placed a kiss upon her nose. Her eyes widened, warmth rising in the irises, and he cupped her cheek. 

“Yes, I believe I’m alright.”

“So,” Emma said as they turned, fingers lacing together, and ambled towards the gate, the dragging of their feet due to the tentativeness in her voice rather than the desire to escape death as soon as possible. “I was thinking, maybe, Alice would be a good name? You know, to honor her. Or Liam, if you want. In case it’s a boy.”

He arched an eyebrow. “I’m fairly certain it will be a lass. Didn’t the doctor confirm such a fact?”

She smiled and rolled her eyes. “Yeah, but we need to start thinking about names anyway.”

Killian froze. “Not Alice, love,” he swallowed thickly. 

A pinch sparked between her eyebrows and her other hand found his arm. “Okay, why?”

A single tear rolled down his cheek. “Due to hope. She would have proclaimed it self-serving, having a child named after her, and Liam would’ve undoubtedly said it was bad form. It was Brennan who did the choosing, he and I were never truly fond of our names.”

Emma smiled weakly and pressed her lips to his underside of his chin, dropping a kiss to his collarbone as well. “I get it.” Her eyes lit with a gasp. “How about Hope?”

The corners of his mouth briefly crinkled his eyes as he rubbed endless circles on her back. “I love it, sweetheart.”

“Hope it is then,” she grinned. Her face grew serious and her gaze searched his. “I love you, Killian Jones.”

His smile smashed into hers. “And I love you, Emma Swan.”

Before departing, he said he loved his mother too over his shoulder. 

And come early summer, Hope did come. 

**  
  
  
**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	2. -As a Hello-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, this was so beautifully painful to write. On behalf of the next few chapters, I'm sorry about all the death. And to anyone who has lived with dementia or a family member with dementia, I mean no disrespect and love you all.

**Chapter 2: -As a Hello-**

Slowly, his eyes blinked open, and for the second time in endless, weary years, his breath was stolen and words ceased on his dried tongue. 

The first time belonged to Emma, robbing him of his smug mask when she’d opened the door and his gaze landed on the simple pink number swishing above her knees, but this,  _ this _ , this home with it’s worn porch steps, perfect triangular structure and rectangular windows peeking into abandoned rooms, tall and grand with a subtly, sky hue peeling and fading from the walls, and white picket fence adorning the promise was his. 

Theirs, in fact. 

He stepped closer, mouth agape of the ethereal white light -sun, perhaps?-spilling from all sides of the house, engulfing it’s edges and brightening it’s color as though it were recently bought from Mills Real Estate. Could it be his mind was playing tricks on him? Could it be- His heart faltered, and his neck caught whiplash as he spun around, feet frantically moving forward and backward and eyes snapping to the end of the block and the sidewalk stretching out to his left and right, no sign of wet, muddied paws for him to follow. 

_ Hope.  _ Bloody hell, that blasted mongrel had no boundaries. 

He stiffened, uncertainty shivering his spine, fingers frozen midway through his hair. Hope? That was in no way possible. She had passed soon after its owner, leaving him to bury yet another body and nurse yet another bottle of rum as he lay on the rocking chair, staring into nothing, becoming nothing. And this house, an interior tainted by secrets and lies, hadn’t been a home for the past ten years or so. 

Not since her spirit clung to the bed, the halls, his body. Not since remnants of her sunshine accompanied his every step in the morning and urged him to another drink in the evening. 

Although the first three years had been golden, in the end some deity must have deemed him unworthy because his life has crumbled inside that house. Without her, he had turned to a mere skeleton surviving for the hell of it. 

Yet what was he doing out here? Not once after Dave and Mary Margaret planned the funeral had he stopped to admire the house. Such a terrible reminder. 

“Babe, you okay?”

He stilled, back turned away from the voice, eyes wide and swirling with questions he’d best not get the answers to. This was a dream, no doubt, and he would awaken any moment to raw disappointment holding his weight down. He nearly commanded himself to wake in a weak attempt to return to reality. How many times had Dr. Hopper told him he must let go of the past, let go of her. How many times had he tried and found he could not. She was rooted in his poor soul and he held no true objections. 

But this...what a cruel dream. Nightmare. 

“Hey.” Delicate and slim familiar fingers brushed his palm and his shoulders sagged, sighing as he succumbed to the dream, and he turned around to find twinkling green eyes waiting for him. “It’s me.”

“Emma,” he breathed and pressed his forehead to hers. Her nose brushed his, nuzzling, and her lips slanted across his. Again, he fell to the dream. Who in their right mind cared this was so real and so a lie at the same time. He cupped her cheek, arm encircling her waist and molding her back to his bending chest as her tongue flicked on his bottom lip, sparking fire through his veins as he parted his lips for her without hesitation and deepened the kiss as their hot, panting tongues slid against each other and it was oh so real his eyebrows furrowed. 

“What? What’s wrong?” she asked, settling her hand on his heart. He shook his head and wrapped nimble, apologetic fingers around her wrist, and she must be a mirage, cursed to disappear, for when she didn’t, she continued smiling softly, a stuttering gasp escaped and he clenched his jaw. Why is it his conscious wouldn’t offer the least mercy?

“You’re not truly here, are you, love?” A tear rolled down his cheek as he closed his eyes. 

“You didn’t keep your promise,” she whispered. “I told you to move on, remember? I told you not to wait for me.”

“Had our roles been reversed, darling, would you have?”

Her thumb stroked his scar. Healed the gaping wound that she’d created. “Probably not,” she said softly. “I mean your brother did say one time I was selfish.”

“Sadly I’m as self-regarding as you then.” He opened his eyes tentatively, and aye, still there. 

She gave him a skeptical look. “Um, no. Besides I get it. I don’t like it, but I get it.”

“Don’t you know, Emma?” His palm skimmed her lower back and tugged her to him at the same time his fingers jumped with recognition and the words fell against the tip of her nose as he stumbled. “It’s you.”

Confusion pinched her brows and then understanding emerged in her gaze and she nodded. “It is me, Killian.” She grabbed his hands, folding their fingers, and he was, simply, lost. Staring and staring and awaiting the moment her memory would pull her from him. 

So often it had happened, a life without it was unrecognizable.

At times he still battled with himself if he could have saved her. If when she’d forgotten the name of the diner, “ _ Granny’s love, why?” _ , when she’d said over the phone that she’d misplaced her keys, had that been the start? 

There were times she would be in the kitchen, washing lettuce for their sandwiches, and then her mood would abruptly turn. Her gaze would morph into steel, asking where she was, who the hell was he, and no amount of imploring he was her husband, their rings a testament, would stop her fist from connecting with his jaw. 

Other times he would arrive from the harbor to find her yelling at David at the station, saying Neal’s name, thinking he was Neal as he tried to calm her and she claimed out of the blue that she was not drinking with him, she wasn’t going anywhere, she wanted the truth as she shoved the Swan keychain in his face. 

Dr. Whale had said nothing could be done. They were too late. Too far along. And her considerable weight loss wasn’t due to a child after all. 

He had sobbed. And killed himself a little more when she’d say, “ _ I have a question for you for once. Do you love me?” _ and gods he did, so bloody much than when she asked the same question naught two minutes later he repeated it with fervor. 

_ She  _ was unrecognizable. With a glow to her creamy skin, her eyes full of vigor, hair silky and straight to her waist and in no way mussed by disease, and the flowing dress centering her as she pulled on their joined hands to lead him past the fence and on the Welcome to the Jones mat. 

She was unrecognizable, and yet she was home. 

He sighed. At last. “Love, am I-”

“Yeah.” She cupped his face, tears mirroring his, confirming the best news. “It happened at night, I think. You called Liam and he called 911, but it was too late. It was just too much drinking.”

Shame creased the corners of his mouth. “Are you vexed?”

The light briefly dimmed in her eyes. “A little. But I missed you. I love you,” she said, as though it were morning again and she was saying hello, no farewell in sight. Not here. Not ever. 

He grinned and walked into her arms. 

Walked right into heaven. 


	3. -In a Letter-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letter writing in Killian's point of view is my favorite, way too easy. Hope you like it too.

**Chapter 3: -In a Letter-**

_April 21, 1924_

_To my dearest Swan,_

_I am not certain of when you will find this, or if this paper will long be forgotten such as our minor appearances in history. Minor for the earth, love, mind you. But I feel as though I must write my heart out, if not I will go mad with longing, and that in itself is an impressive feat. You know as well as I do how extensive my patience can be, built from watching kings rise and fall._

_You recall Francis? He was nothing but a wee lad when he wed Queen Mary. You and I were of twenty four and twenty six, attending the pompous affair in Notre Dame, Paris. And quite the evening it was, darling, as we stood among nobles and the like, witnessing Mary in a white dress with a long train borne of two lasses, enveloped by a diamond necklace and golden coronet studded with jewels. You commented on her beauty beside me, and I remember enough to sheepishly admit I was at a loss for words, for in that moment your fingers found mine, my other hand took care of fidgeting with the ring in my breeches._

_At the time I worried you might find it offensive, too simple for someone of your station, as though we could be anything but destined. My name was yet too appear on your wrist, and I feared our love had finally worn, and that I was to blame. Imagine my surprise when you said yes, tears in your eyes, months before the dauphin’s sickness came to light. We danced far into the night when they were wed, and come the ceremony, everyone believed they would be infinite, an alliance to be sustained for all time. How tragic their endings._

_Come Mary’s imprisonment, I feared we would meet the same ending, that the gift of watching kings rise and fall with you was not a blessing in disguise after all, but a curse. For how grand could it be to awake in a new era, seek you, find you, love you, only to be ripped away so abruptly, and do it all over again? But you, Swan, with your fierceness and your light, restored my hope, that perhaps we were not doomed to suffer, not doomed to just watch our friends pass into the heavens without us and leave us with fresh, gaping wounds._

_On the eve of our own wedding, as shocking as it came to the castle, with my head between your breasts and my cock softening inside you in the haze of our panting, you repeated my vow to me. “Always. I will always be by your side, Killian.” And gods, did I cling to that. I cling to it now, as I sit twenty stories high, another lonesome immigrant, staring at the life below me, trying to pick you out of the crowd._

_You must be asking yourself the same question as I am._

_Have I gone mad? Perhaps._

_But surely you must know I have never been fearful of falling. And neither are my mates Robin and Will, it would seem. They too keep their balance on these iron beams, not as careless as I am, of course, hanging off ledges and tempting the wind to misstep my body. Now, do not go and get vexed, darling. I remain waiting for you. Although at times I wonder if you are a dream, with the years that fade and blur and you are yet to arrive, yet to meet my eyes and recall every lifetime, but then my mind brings to the surface the United States. Certainly a pipe dream in a thousand, rich men’s plans. And I become aware you are not a dream, Swan, but the truth._

_I dwell some more._

_My need to write, to feel in some method of close to you, is fed by Robin’s likeness. I am reminded of Liam in his character. That self-righteous bastard doing his best to keep us apart in Rome. How I miss him. How I miss you. Come the end of this life, I will be forced to leave Robin and Will behind, and who knows who you will leave with a broken heart on their sleeve._

_They are good men, honorable, just as intent as I am to help the architecture reach the heavens. And I’ve no clue where this fervor to leave a mark comes from, all I know is that I must. I must feel time slow. I must feel myself retain my youthful glow. I must feel you, here, with the sun shining brightly on my face, I must feel you and how you are worth it._

_Oh you are so worth it, Emma. So much more than you can comprehend._

_I shall wait. I shall pray my name appears on your wrist._

_I shall wait for you to find me._

_Find me, yes?_

_With love,_

_Killian_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm curious if you guys would like me to write more letters like these? Also thanks for reading!


	4. -Over a Cup of Tea-

**Chapter 4: -Over a Cup of Tea-**

Emma sat at the kitchen table and stared at the ceramic tea mug for a long minute. 

The cereal boxes -all three different types: Cocoa Puffs, Fruit Loops, and Frosted Flakes because Hope, Lea, and Charles all had three different preferences- were already set with the bowls and spoons. Sure, the alarm would go off at 8:00 AM soon,  _ but  _ she still had time so she cradled the mug into her palms and rubbed her thumbs against the rim, fingers sliding through the handle and around it like it was Killian and not a mug. 

His concentration, his sweat formed from that musty church room, his fingers kneading and designing it to his liking was all there. In the small white ship he’d painted being rocked violently with the restless waves, foam surging, and the black flags victim to the invisible roaring wind. In the open sky above, pouring crystal-like rain onto the lonely sailor braving the water. The colors were the colors you expected them to be, but somehow with more passion, more force, more trying to prove something. 

What had fourteen-year old Killian been thinking when he made this? Why hadn’t he told her so she could have the story instead of the same desperate feeling in her gut the sailor had? 

All his other mugs had a story. The one with the anchor crashing to the ground and sand flying into the air about his brother’s death. The one with the sun shining, almost blinding, on a somber looking face as the rays fought against the shadows clinging to the man’s shoulders supposedly their first meeting and bittersweet relationship. 

But this one.

He’d never told her and she’d had a guess but she’d waited until he was ready and it turned out ready would be never. Maybe not until Hope was sixty five and had kids and it was safe to let go. 

His mom had loved tea cups, and in turn, Killian had loved tea.  _ “Soothes the nerves, darling,”  _ he used to tell her when her job wiped any hint of a smile from her face. “ _ Coffee’s better _ ,” she used to shoot back, but she’d accept the mug into her hands along with the saucer because he was an old-fashioned ass, and mostly it was accepting his palm to cover hers than the chamomile on her tongue. Father Robin had taught him well, hours spent throwing his rage into the process paying off. 

Emma sighed. Why hadn’t he told her the story?

She leaned forward and dropped her chin against the heel of her hand, looking at the morning outside the window. They’d both belonged to towns, but she found the city was nice too. Nice because in a city so crowded and strangers so busy and so on a mission like her, there was no one to stop her and ask how she was doing and frown when she said fine. 

Of course she wasn’t fine, she caressed his tea cup every morning in search of him when her kids couldn’t see the mess she was. She’d gone back on her promise and set up every wall he’d knocked down. 

The mornings were his. Once upon a time she would have been the one stumbling down the stairs with the kids to find him sitting at the table, nursing his tea and now...from her peek in between the curtains, the sun had finally broken over the top of the buildings, pouring light everywhere, including on the floor where her foot tapped quietly, and maybe in the entire room if she ever managed to slip it out of the dark and let the promising blue sky and sounds of traffic rush inside. 

7:59 AM. 

She inhaled a deep, shaky breath to prepare herself -for the two important words. Ones that should never be forgotten. 

Her stomach clenched in response to those first few months when the news of a sinking ship and no survivors under the name of Killian Jones were announced. She’d been a walking storm of vengeance and unfair, and then the fight had zapped and her arms numbed in their effort to hold her plank and throwing makeshift punches into a beanbag she imagined was Robert Gold wasn’t enough. She’d curled on the couch, staring at nothing, eating nothing, ignoring her mom’s insufferable speeches of hopes and her dad’s insufferable reminder to not give up, to not make the grief’s job easier. Bullshit.

They didn’t get it. And god, how could her kids get it? Hope, Leia, and Charles had tiptoed around her, going along with her pretending to be better, to rejoin the world full of taxes and new living arrangements, curling their bodies around her feet, her chest, her back, trying to silently bring the tough  _ Emma  _ back. 

That Emma didn’t return until this tea cup. Discovered under the bed, in a box similar to the one where she’d hid all the disappointments of her childhood. 

Her eyes opened. 

8:00 AM now. 

“Good morning,” she whispered to the walls, and smiled. Those words were like religion to him, a phrase you should say and try to live by. She used to groan and roll away from him, but his arms would tug her firmer against his chest and his Good Mornings would engulf her ear. She’d always asked what was so good about mornings. 

Truth is nobody liked mornings, nobody liked to get up and realize they had to  _ try.  _ She sure as hell didn’t like them, hadn’t since she was a kid and mornings had meant attending a school that mocked her, mornings had meant had no money again and sleeping in the backseat of her bug, mornings had meant another day with the same guard frowning at her inside her cell. Mornings had meant something dreadful. 

But then him. 

Killian had treated mornings like they were a promise. Another chance to live in the middle of a crisis. Like they were hope for the orphan who’d expected no hope. Eventually she’d believed him. Eventually fate, whatever, had laughed and decided forever wasn’t in their cards. 

Fuck fate. 

A few minutes later pounding feet, rushing voices, and crashing bodies erupted upstairs. A moment and the blur of two raven heads and one blonde head raced down the stairs, rubbing their eyes and grumbling half-hearted Good Mornings, dropping chaste kisses on Emma’s cheeks as she jumped to her feet, smoothing her palm through their hair and pressing kisses to their foreheads as chairs scraped and milk was fought for. 

Another good morning. If Killian could see them now. 

8:30 AM and it was time to go and the teacup witnessed as they all ran out the door, hauling backpacks and hollering bye’s, yelling at the last second that it was Friday and so it was take-out day. 

“I miss him too, mom,” Hope said into her side-hug, time slowing as Emma rubbed gentle circles on Hope’s back. 

She sighed, “I know, baby, I know.” She released her, turning and cupping her face, smiling into the ocean eyes she’d inherited. “Be good, okay? Give Phillip a piece of your mind if you have to.”

Hope laughed and it was Killian’s laugh too. 

Tears sparked to Emma’s eyes and she let her go. 

Then it was silent again. 

She was alone and brought the empty teacup to her lips and whispered, “I love you,” over it. Maybe it was her memory, but as her lips ghosted the rim, she swore there was the calloused and full lips meeting hers softly. 

After, she finally had coffee. 

And if fourteen year old Killian was a survivor, thirty-four year old Emma was too.


	5. -Loud, So Everyone Can Hear-

**Chapter 5: -Loud, So Everyone Can Hear-**

What a lie the heavens wrought. What a fool he’d been, to believe He could forsake their sins. But the question remained beating, seeking understanding in the nook and cranny of his mind that was overflowing with desperation. The question demanded to be proven true: Was it truly a sin they had committed, falling in love as they did, desiring to help heal themselves rather than the mortals?

_Yes_ , his mind screamed. 

_Never,_ his heart knew. 

His feet skirted along the plushness of the clouds. What had once acted as pillows of comfort, of home, now acted as quicksand with the gathering masses delaying his giant strides. He followed, squinting over the many heads, cursing and scowling a path through the traitors by shooting his arms forth, ripping their wings aside. The sturdiness of the clouds did not match the rhythm of his heart, threatening to gallop out of his chest as Gabriel abrupted paused at the edge. Surely this should have served a sign to Him: the way his nose fumed, his glare turned murderous, the fingers curling into trembling fists. A sign that he was no protector, no follower of the savior, and that his name was truly a curse He had overseen. 

But she. 

Oh his love. 

She was golden. The picture of what an angel was described to be in the bible. The kind depicted as their guardians, with a flowing white gown and creamy skin soaking in the sunlight, with the rays of sun tumbling to her waist in loose curls, with the beautiful face capable of becoming both soft and fierce. 

He was raven. The horrendous creature said to lurk in the shadows. He did not fit with the other traitors in their white costumes and his hands refused to clasp, but she clasped them now as Gabriel tried gripping regret into her arm. She did not flinch, green orbs not giving the bastard the satisfaction of being right, and her features were impenetrable stone. Her shoulders set, hunched for the inevitable, eyebrows knitted in concentration for the pain soon to come, and a stubborn line settled on her lips as Gabriel snarled her a couple steps forward. 

She was a sight for sore eyes -indeed she was his sight for sore eyes after spending so much time apart from the light. She was light in itself and they were about to damn her to earth. 

He shoved forth with vengeance in his tongue, lashing at the annoyed glances thrown his way, and then a deafening gasp echoed through his ears as Gabriel snatched the halo from her head, cutting roughly into skin and scurrying crimson down her cheeks. She winced then and it pierced through his soul. 

Stepping back, Gabriel raised a hand and called, “Let this be a reminder to you. Of who is our Savior, who is our King. Not the liar in hell, not the one who has corrupted this young girl-”

"Woman,” Emma spit and Killian grinned, for a moment lost and found in her bravery. 

“Right.” Gabriel rolled his eyes. “This _woman_ who has offered temptation to one of the brothers in your mist. Who is the Eve to Adam. She will now be a lesson to all you, of what happens when you are not strong enough to resist the darkness. She will hold no sway over any of you once the deed is done, one she lands back on earth where she belongs.”

Not a single angel moved, breath held in awe, eyes unblinking, for it had a millenia since Lucifer and his friends were cast. 

Not a single angel spoke up for the treachery, and Killian ran. 

Gabriel settled his palm on her lower back, arched his fingers for leverage, prolonged the moment with a sign of the cross on her forehead. 

His eyes widened, mouth forming ‘ _no, please no_ ’, and-

She turned. Searched for him among the crowd. Met his eyes. Mouthed ‘ _I love you_ ’. 

All heads swiveled on him. Her confession brought him up short. Her confession roared. They were yet to utter such a truth. 

Resolve pulsed through his feathers, and he pushed off the clouds, wings unfolding behind his back, arms reaching out in his flight. 

“Enough of this,” Gabriel said and fear, unbidden fear flashed in her eyes when his palm thrusted into her back and the wind forced her hair back as her wings, glowing and beautiful and fair, were late to break out against her flaying limbs. 

“EMMA!”

*********

The ground knocked the air from her lungs and in her closed eyes, something cracked in her ears, soft feathers caressed her face, spine twisted into an odd angle, and she couldn’t move. 

She was broken.


	6. -As an Apology-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As said in the tags, this was inspired by the end scene of Quantico's season two, where Alex and Ryan were on the plane. I've never written a criminal AU before, and this one shot isn't really dipping fully into that but you'll get the gist of it -and also, I never liked Ryan, but I love Killian so enjoy!

**Chapter 6: -As an Apology-**

He’d never much cared for flying, body and soul belonging to the sea more than anything, but fate was a tricky bastard and now it surely rejoiced in his predicament. 

A landlubber again, although not by choice but by forces beyond his control. Laws, if you will. That he’d been groomed and trained and installed time and time again to follow because it was right, it was honor, it was the true America. All pitiful lies. To claim it the country of the free and then steal Killian of his for exposing another dishonest king? 

His fingers curled into his palm, nails digging into skin until they threatened to draw blood. Blood coursed through his veins for a moment, clenching his jaw so tight his vein might burst. The same corrupt government, same corrupt men writhing in their wealth trying to tell  _ him  _ what was best. He, who was part of democracy, part of the bloody country, what foolishness! He trembled silently in his seat, glass of rum shaking in his grip by the unfairness and the roar of the plane as it sped and tilted upwards. 

Glancing at the window, the fight dissipated from his shoulders. Unfortunately the belt buckle kept him from achieving any further sagging as Robin, Will, David, Mary Margaret, and Swan,  _ his Swan, his love _ all flashed through his mind and sparked his head to throw back and welcome the burning sensation down his clogged throat. They were all goodbyes in the distance, he a sacrifice to them for the greater good, and he wanted nothing more than the hope they wrought in their wake to guide his path. 

A sigh escaped, lips weary of sighing. What would Liam think? How far he had fallen from the bar, certainly. Any previous promise of reaching the bar lost in this war he had started and ended. The Jones name would be remembered as the name of a traitor, a villain who’d broken laws, a man who’d brought the president to their knees along with his future. Gods, had Liam lived, perhaps Killian would have made a different choice, taken a different course of action,  _ moved on _ but…

No. The citizens deserved the truth behind Gold’s facade. They’d both be damned. 

Not five years ago, Liam and he had settled into their seats and their dreams of glory on a different plane. They’d laughed and shared at minimum of their beginnings with the other militia. They’d clinked spirits and followed mates into battle. They’d reported, given their lives, and all for a lie. Now the crocodile had paid and Killian was empty of what came next. 

His life’s purpose met. 

“Another?” The flight attendant asked and a weak smile surfaced to his face as he handed her the glass for the third time. 

“Aye, much appreciated, lass.” She gave him a sympathetic smile in return and clicked away. 

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, closing his eyes and running a hand through his hair. Tears pricked behind his eyelids, but he pinched the bridge of his nose and refused, simply refused. 

He was the only passenger after all, anyone could hear his pain.

The blinking lights indicated it was alright to take his seatbelt off and he did so quickly, lack of restraints allowing him to breathe. He shifted, the unease in the air of his own making amongst the empty seats, the faint chatter of the other flight attendants in the background leaving him alone and a ghost, and he half expected to turn his head and find women bowed over books or men slumbering the hours or children crying for attention but it was only him and the clouds, much too white and slow and peaceful for the uncertainty ravaging his heart. 

Oh how his heart longed for Emma. Longed for home. New York had not been home, far from it, but she had been. What if -of course not. He couldn’t have asked that of her. Her family, her life was elsewhere. And he was nothing but a criminal with miles of burner phones. 

_ “You’re leaving,” Emma’s eyes widened as she crossed the couples steps separating them in the alley. Her oxygen puffed out into the chilly October night, clashing with the winds caressing her hair as she stopped in front of him with a frown, betrayal evident in her gaze as she stared at him with arms pulled into an X, and he nearly said no, for the desire to wipe the hurt from her face was too strong.  _

_ Nearly.  _

_ “Use your superpower on me, Swan, see that it is the truth,” he whispered and her glare intensified.  _

_ "I know it’s the truth, you idiot! I know,” her voice cut into a sob and her face crumbled. That was it, that was his revolve releasing its aching hold on his beating organ, and he tossed the bag onto the gravel as his arm enveloped her back and wrapped around her waist, tugging her into a crushing hug of equally unsteady chests as her palm clutched onto the nape of his neck and face buried into his shoulder. “I know you have to run,” she sniffed, tears -of regret, perhaps? Of little time left?- absorbed by his jacket.  _

_ “I’m afraid so, love. All justice has a price,” he said, mistyness forming in his own vision as his nose sought her hair, eyes falling closed on strands, and the gentle circles he was smoothing on her lower back as much for her as it was for him.  _

_ “You shouldn’t have to pay it,” she shook her head and pulled away to cup his face, press their foreheads together and shatter his choice a little more because this woman could only ever admit her true feelings when facing certain death and he did not wish to be the death of her.  _

_ “Darling, I’ve committed a treacherous thing. Unforgivable to some.” _

_ “Not to us,” she muttered, eyes insisting. “We can protect you, you can come back to me.” _

_ He frowned. Deep and unyielding. “Swan, I will not willingly put you in harm's way.” _

_ Her glare was murderous. “So that’s it? All that talk about being a survivor and at the first sign of trouble you’re gonna run? You’re not going to fight?” _

_ "Bloody hell, love, fight who?” He shook his head vehemently, jaw clicking uncontrollably. “Who is there to fight? Gold is unseated. A new election will come to pass. My revenge is complete, and  _ I  _ shall deal with the consequences. No one else should have to follow me to hell.” _

_ Understanding, more than understanding,  _ knowing,  _ flickered in her small smile as she stepped closer and placed her hand over his pounding heart, fingers splaying as she inhaled a deep breath. “You could still be part of something. Or.” Her gaze did not waver, but face, her body pleaded. “Or you could do what you do best and be alone.” _

_ “Sweetheart,” he sighed, “I’m not worth it.” _

_ Her lips pressed into a stubborn line. “Let me be the judge of that.” _

_ “I can’t.” He squeezed his eyes shut, a single tear slipping past his chin, and bent for his bag.  _

_ “Killian,” Her arm looped around his neck and his shocked sound was muffled in her lips crushing into his, capturing his feeble protests once and twice as their tongues tangled in a heated farewell. “I,” she panted, “I…” _

_ He swallowed thickly. “I love you, love,” he said and then, with a heavy everything, turned away.  _

_ “Hey.” She tugged roughly on the lapel of his jacket and their eyes locked. “Promise?” _

_ “What exactly?” _

_ “What you said last time. Remember?” _

_ He did and a watery smile rose to his face. “Aye. There’s not a day that’ll go by that I won’t think of you.” _

_ Specks of green glittered as she nodded. “Good.” _

Good. Such a bittersweet word. Permission to let her roam his thoughts, and roam she did as the dawn broke and somewhere in the future he would have to forgive himself. 

Could he? 

Could she for deserting her?

Once, she’d revealed her that her whole life everyone she’d loved had abandoned her. Now he’d done the same. Yet how could he ever ask her to follow, to care for a broken man? 

She deserved someone whole. Less scarred. Less marred by the delicious taste of darkness. 

Less like  _ him.  _

“Mind if I join you?”

He stilled. 

That voice. That blur of red leather jacket in the outskirts of his vision. The smooth, creamy hand nudging his shoulder with his flask. The sunshine obscuring her face as she dropped into the seat next to his aisle with a sigh. 

“Swan,” he breathed, and swiveled his gaze on her. She was waiting, a small resigned smile on her lip balmed lips. 

“Yeah,” she said softly. 

“But how?” He shook his head. “We agreed-”

“No.” She faced him, and raised her eyebrows for emphasis. “We didn’t. You did, because you’re like me, I guess. When things get tough you don’t want to tell anyone, you want to fix it all by yourself.”

“Love, I’m-”

“No, no, no, hey.” Her palm slid against his and laced their fingers. “I get it. Remember you’re talking to the expert on running.”

“I’m aware this is cowardly.”

Her thumb rubbed his knuckles. “It is. But if it is then me not telling you what I should have told you is also the coward’s way out.”

He arched an eyebrow, throat dry. “And what is it you wished to tell me?”

A moment passed. In silence. In both of them gathering their bearings. In fear. 

At last, she looked at him. Inhaled a deep breath and said, “I’m not giving up on you, and I’m not going anywhere.” 

His mouth opened and closed several times and he blinked hopelessly. “Does this mean-”

“Yeah.” She smiled. A lovely smile, brimming with hope. 

His feet scrambled to stand. “But what of your family, your friends, bloody hell your career!”

She shrugged. “We’ll find a way.”

“Truly?”

She only grinned and tucked a strand of behind her ear. He gazed at her, speechless and every selfish bone in his body wanting. 

“I told your father I’d go to the end of the world for you. Or time,” he said softly. 

“Then take this as me returning the favor,” she quipped. Her face grew serious. “I love you.”

She winced. As though it were an apology. As though he wouldn’t forgive her for not telling him sooner. 

He cupped her cheek, swiping his knuckles across skin. “Oh Emma,” he whispered because  _ he  _ loved  _ her  _ and certain death would always be everywhere and his peace with that had been established. 

“I love you, Killian Jones, no matter what you’ve done,” she said. 

Then her lips met his. 

And the unknown was suddenly rather clear. 


	7. -A Whisper in the Ear-

**Chapter 7: -A Whisper in the Ear-**

Emma glanced at the passenger seat, empty like the mug whose lukewarm coffee she’d forced down her throat, empty like the red, swollen eyes staring back at her in the rearview mirror. Her nose was red too, but not from the chilled wind snaking past the bug’s ancient cracks, like they should be, like the grey beanie pulled low over ears gives the impression that it should be. 

No, she’s on a mission, she’s supposed to be working, she’s supposed to be punching back people’s opinions on her, but she’s officially run out of Mcdonald’s napkins and even those instantly gave up their purpose when she swiped them roughly over her cheeks and blew her nose so hard her body was thrown forward. Her cupholder overflowed with how obviously she was failing at keeping her shit together and-

A new text. From Mary Margaret. Again. 

**MM: Emma, where are you?**

**MM: I’m at your apartment**

**MM: It’s past 2, I’m worried.**

**MM: Please tell me you’re okay.**

**MM: I’m gonna leave but I’m leaving leftovers in the fridge, okay?**

**MM: David will let you have those vacation days, or more, if you want, you could still take them.**

**MM: Call me when you get home.**

**MM: I also know you don’t want to hear this but Liam stopped by, something about boxes?**

**MM: Okay fine, you don’t have to answer me, but stay safe.**

**MM: We missed you on Thursday.**

Emma sighed, long and heavy, filling the cramped space with impatience. Mary Margaret was doing it again. Her stupid, helicopter parenting that Emma had never asked for. Hadn’t she made it clear? She was better off alone. She’d announced it to everyone with her curt nods and vague responses at the station. Returning to bail bonds. Because suddenly she was back to running and finding and feeding the new, untamed spark for catching assholes in the act. 

Assholes that’d stolen him, his heartbeat right under her cheek. All her fault. Her walls had ruined everything.

Her fists clenched. To hell with Liam. And the damn boxes he kept dropping off at her door, like he expected her to fill them with _Killian,_ like he deserved to have Killian’s favorite teacup and the Jane Austen collection she’d helped add to over the years. Only for his self-righteous ass to ship back to the very place Killian had escaped. He was his brother but he didn’t know Killian. He didn’t know anything. He didn’t know that sometimes looking at those boxes curled her on the couch for days with his leather jacket, that she would have a decent day and then, just, break. 

Beyond the windshield, the inky blue sky returned her trembling frown and moon had hid itself among the clouds threatening to spill tears too. Good. She preferred to keep it’s sympathetic smile away. The curtains pulled on the windows of their room proof of it. 

She bit her lip. 

Their room. Still theirs. Still his and he’d _hated_ keeping the curtains closed, ignoring her groans every time as she threw a pillow over her face, claiming it was time to “Up and at’ em, Swan”, and he wasn’t a sailor but he sure as hell acted like one when he woke up with the sun. 

She glanced at the passenger seat. And the truth blurred her vision. 

In the dark it was easy to believe the lie she’d told Mary Margaret.

Easy to believe this was an important stakeout and they were both struggling to keep their eyes peeled for the skip because they were too busy staring at each other’s eyes instead. Easy to believe their fingers were brushing in the middle as she reached for the last bearclaw and no amount of light smacking from his hand would stop her. Easy to believe they were arguing over how accurate Reign actually was and planning a Netflix evening in because they had to, it was a challenge, and they both never backed down from a challenge. 

Easy to believe it wasn’t a lie and she’d been staring at a brick wall for nothing. 

Easy to believe his lips would brush the shell of her ear any minute now and whisper “ _I love you, love, what do you say we go catch ourselves another brigand, yes?”_

And she would say yes.

Too late. 

**********

Granny gave her a consoling smile as she slid the plate of freshly baked grilled cheese and onion rings in front of her and turned around, bumping into a rushing Ruby on heels who did a double take when she caught sight of Emma at their booth. 

Theirs. Was it still considered theirs even when the other person was gone? She pressed her lips together tightly, until the seams bruised, teeth deciding to draw blood. A part of her, the ugly part, the one who’d been abandoned so many times she’d lost count, wanted to scream. Or cry her eyes out. Or throw things until people understood what it felt like to shatter. 

She kept staring at the chair beside her, had walked into the diner and expected him to be sitting there, one knee crossed over the other as he bookmarked his spot on _Pride and Prejudice._ Her fingers kept grazing air, expecting his calloused ones to dance on her palm and lace with hers under the table. Her leg kept jumping, expecting his palm to smooth over her knee and rub a circle through the jeans, reminding her with a pointed eyebrow that there was always a crisis, that she should consider living a life during them or otherwise she might miss it, that _this,_ lunch at Granny’s was life. 

But no. 

She’d entered, swept her gaze to the counter and over the dispersing lunch crowd, sprinted into the bathroom with the excuse to wash her hands only to search for him there too. 

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t anywhere. 

Ruby closed and opened her mouth a few times, but in the end she didn’t know how to approach the woman who’d told everyone to fuck off, and settled with finishing wrapping the scarf around her neck and giving her a weak smile on her way out at the same time the bell dinging above the door warned Emma of her coming nightmare. 

“Emma Swan,” Liam said as he pulled out a chair and sat with the elegancy of man who’d practiced it in offices and meetings. Her eyes zeroed in on his tipped back chin as he regarded her with an air of resignation. He sighed and pasted on an endearing smile that wasn’t fooling anyone. “So glad to see you _could_ join me, after all.”

She repressed from rolling her eyes. “I think you mean Jones.” 

He blinked, smile shifting into a frown. And there it was. The first crack in his picture perfect mirror. “I beg your pardon?”

Of course he did. Of course he looked at her and saw nothing but Emma Swan. Never Emma Jones. 

Emma sunk her teeth deeper into her tongue. He didn’t belong here.

His buttoned suit and formal pants announced he was an outsider. His constant and subtle fidgets as he tapped his fingers against the menu, not giving a single look since waltzing in with his head held high, proved that he stood out like a rose stood out among tulips.

The black and white checkered tiles didn’t mold with his short, black boots, and the bright vinyl crimson booths didn’t match the drab look dimming his blue eyes. Weird, how the minute Liam had entered with a neutral expression, the chatter had died down and faded into the background, leaving his loud silence in the face of her own stony features. 

She sighed. “Come on Liam, you know it’s Jones.”

He nodded, lips shrugging. “Oh do I?”

“There was a judge and witnesses and everything, so yeah.”

More than that, there was Killian whispering in her ear that he loved her, _more than the demons I’ve worshipped, more than anything_ as they swayed to stupidly good Ed Sheeran music. And listened to the toast from Mary Margaret and David’s speech. More than that it was slowly sliding the dress past her breasts, his palms roaming the inside of her thighs, and her fingers carding wildly through his gel tamed hair as he filled her and rocked their damp skin into oblivion. 

“I’m certain there was,” Liam’s humoring tone cut through her thoughts, and Emma’s gaze flicked to his sharply. “Except for Killian’s family, but why recall your bad judgment, aye?”

Her eyes widened and she half-jumped from her chair, leaning in as she dropped her voice low and sparked a warning in her face. “I can’t believe this. You call me, try to fool with your bullshit kindness, and then come to, what, rub salt in the wound?”

For the first time Liam’s shoulders sagged slightly. Barely. “Emma, no. I’ve not traveled to rub salt in the wound.” He raised a hand, gesturing promptly at himself and weakly twisting his wrist in her direction. “Considering the wound belongs to both of us.”

“Then why are you here?” Emma shook her head, mind made up on her lips. “If it’s about the boxes, Mary Margaret already told me, and you can save your money and your time because you’re not taking anything.”

A dark cloud crossed his face. “I fear you’ve forgotten: he’s my brother.”

“It’s kind of hard to forget,” she muttered, quickly making an X with her arms. 

“I see you refuse to let go of your resentment.”

Emma scoffed. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

Liam stared at her for a moment, quietly analyzing her position, her unyielding glare, and came to the conclusion that facts would not work with her. “Emma, please.” He clasped his hands on top of the menu, always on top of everything. “I reached out with every intention to be civil.”

“And you think telling me, basically demanding me, to give all of his stuff is civil?”

The corners of his resurfacing frown twitched. “It’s right. My little brother-”

“Younger,” Emma said automatically because Killian would have. Killian should have. 

Hesitant appreciation whipped through his eyes. “Right,” he said slowly, and cleared his throat. “Yes, of course. Younger. As I was saying, he was never supposed to come to America, much less fall for an American. He was all set on our Hero’s journey and imagine my surprise when I find him corrupted by foreign dreams and plans deemed to fail and to top it all off, married to a stranger.”

“You’re seriously full of it,” she fumed. 

He looked at her with distaste. “Full of the truth, I agree.”

That was it. This asshole couldn’t keep thinking he was right anymore. 

“It was your fault,” Emma spat, hoping the daggers shooting from her eyes would cut through his all God conduct. Liam didn’t flinch, and that pumped the blood faster through her veins. “If anyone screwed up Killian, it was you, you don’t think he ever talked about you setting the bar so high so the only thing he thought he could do was fail?”

Liam’s eyes flared. Finally. She’d struck a nerve. “I’d be careful with your implications,” he replied in a dangerous low voice. “He was my brother, and I did my best, raising him as I did.” His threw his head back on a scoff, slapping his palm on the rickety table and tumbling her menu over the edge. Granny’s intent gaze snapped her direction and the diner instantly silenced. They both ignored it. “But all of that, all of that hardship, only for him to grow up a fool in over his head, for love of all bloody things!”

“Go to hell, Liam.”

He sobered, grasping his chin and smoothing his palm over it roughly. “I’m afraid I’m already there,” he whispered.

Emma granted him a humorless laugh. “Yeah, I can tell.”

“Sarcasm aside.” He paused, and locked gazes with hers, and Emma was rooted to her spot by the striking resemblance in that moment. So close to Killian. So different, and so far. “I loved him.”

Her heart dropped to her stomach. “Guess that makes two of us,” Emma said softly, eyes falling to the floor like she should be ashamed for agreeing with him. Shame, unapologetic shame stiffened her and washed over her bones, turning her hazy movements to jelly as it rushed to fill her eyes with fat, barely held in drops. 

Somewhere in the distance a chair scraped. 

A menu was picked up and a lame excuse said. 

“Wait.” Liam’s hand wrapped around her hand. Cold. Like Killian. _Fuck._ “For both our sakes, reconsider.”

“No,” she replied shakily. 

His face morphed with disbelief. “You should have let him go when you had the chance. What you did was a bloody selfish thing to do. And he complied to your wishes, always forgoing his desires for you, _you._ ”

She pushed as much steel into her look as she could. “ _He_ wanted to marry _me._ ”

That was the first truth in a while, and she finally breathed. For a second. 

“Of course he did,” Liam said distastefully, releasing her arm. 

“Don’t bring more boxes.” Not a warning, but a hidden between the lines plea. 

He didn’t respond and she took her cue to leave. 

Outside, she waited. So many similar conversations had ended like this, in different restaurants and coffee shops, with him trying to buy his way back into Killian’s heart, displaying the hefty wallet to remind Killian of the fortune they were going to built, the dream that wasn’t really their dream but Liam’s, right from the bottom. 

Each time Killian would stand, kiss her hand, and wish him the best. 

Each time Liam would stand, fix his suit, and tell him one day he would regret this, he would regret her. 

She waited for his nose to caress her hair, lips to meet her ear, and say “ _I love you, love._ ”

But he doesn’t. 

And maybe Killian should have regretted her. 

**  
  
**

**********

She kept hugging his jacket to her chest on the couch, his ring to her lips. 

She kept dry-heaving into the toilet. 

Mary Margaret was worried. David called, got her voicemail. Granny left lasagna at her doorstep. Ruby pounded on the door, yelled she was her best friend and to hell with her poor string of “Fine’s. 

She’s sleeping. A lot. He’s everywhere in their apartment, but if she closed her eyes, he was in dreams and that was better. 

She made boiled mackerel, just to figure out the appeal, just for the memories to drown her again. 

Poptarts, Rocky Road, Chinese food, Pepperoni pizza with mushrooms -she wanted them. So bad. She might cry. But then she does get them and hours later her feet are running towards the bathroom. 

Mary Margaret is the first one to spark hope. What if? _Pregnant, Emma, what if you’re pregnant._

She smiled through tears. What if, what if, what if?

And her fingers dug into the edges of the sink as she slumped, silent sobs clogging her throat as her body trembled. 

Negative. 

She’s not and he’s officially gone. 

She officially has no piece of him. 

And she’s dead. 

**********

The sun was shining. She was trying. For Mary Margaret’s sake more than anybody else. But Dr. Hopper was patient and kind and he didn’t look at her with pity, he didn’t look at her like her heart was in pieces.

She’d been late five times already, on purpose. She was going to be early this time, she was fucking going to try not to disappoint. She’d set an alarm for 9:30 AM. She was ready in five. She got into her bug, resolute -sort of resolute, to deal, finally, really deal. 

And there was the skip. The one with a manic look in his eyes. The one that’d escaped from the precinct last week. The one who’d given her chills of foreshadowing, something bad, something unhinged. The one she’d brought in. 

He was driving, _flying_ towards her, and there wasn’t enough time to pray, to hope, to listen to reason, to listen to fear and do something, anything because he was coming and she was blocked on all sides. 

No scream, only glass shattering in her face. Black instantly welcoming her. 

It’s weird. 

She’s swimming in darkness. 

There’s the sense that she’s home, that he’s near, so close she could-

“Swan?” A whisper in her ear. 

His breath shot relief -of life, was it life?

She could do the impossible. She could touch him. 

So definitely life. 

So definitely his voice whispering his love. **  
**


End file.
